


Our Tell-Tale Bones

by SinclairMaxwell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Dogs, Golden Retriever, M/M, Ministry of Darkness, My First Work in This Fandom, No one really knows about Kane..., Not Canon Compliant, Not Epilogue Compliant, The Corporation - Freeform, Triple H is terrible, Vizsla, What Have I Done, Why Did I Write This?, adult!Harry, mage!Undertaker, silent!Kane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:12:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinclairMaxwell/pseuds/SinclairMaxwell
Summary: In a world where magic can be found in strange places, a lonely soldier has learned to make his way alone in the world. He left everything behind. Friends, home, even magic. Unfortunately, Harry just had to bring that damned 'Saving People Thing' along with him. Helping a bleeding stranger in an alley wasn't all that life changing but when the mage happens to be a certain Phenom...





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: So...yeah, I really have no excuse for this one. I've never been ashamed of my own writing but even I'm a little embarrassed by this one, despite the fun I'm having with it. It IS kind of cool to be the first to write a certain pairing or crossover though so there's that. Either way, weird as it is, I'M WRITING AGAIN. With all of the health issues and hospital visits I've had recently, that in itself is an accomplishment so I'm going to take it. xD

 

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Rights are reserved by J.K. Rowling, the World Wrestling Federation and all subsidiaries and involved parties. Don't sue me.

**My Tell-Tale Bones**

**_Chapter One...The Ghosts That Haunt Our Steps_ **

_'My bones will tell the tale of this life that I will leave, if only my flesh would give up its ghosts.'_

  


The rain was pouring down. It fell against the pavement of the Liverpool city neighborhood with a staccato that I could feel in my bones. Death was all around. In the city it always was. The elderly drawing what would be their last breaths, animals killing one another. People killing one another. Everyone and everything dying slowly day by day. That was what it meant to be, though, wasn’t it? As soon as we drew breath cells began the endless cycle of death and birth. Even stone eroded and the oldest of the ancient trees decayed. Whole societies thrived and fell. Everything died. Except for me.

I crept down the street quietly, Tescos bag in hand and coat collar upturned to the rain. Mrs. Appleby’s dried up old hydrangeas in the window box nextdoor reminded me far too much of Aunt Petunia’s garden the bint had been so proud of. A garden she had watered and kept by my own sweat and blood. That had been several years ago though. I hadn’t seen my relatives since I left their house that chilly August at fourteen. Six years it had been now and I hadn’t had any inclination to renew the relationship. No, I’m sure the Dursleys were quite happy with me out of their lives.

They hadn’t been the only ones I had left behind in past years.

‘ _All of us_.’ Came the whispered voice of ghosts long dead.

Susan Bones watched me blankly from the reflection of a nearby car, half of her face blasted away into ruin. Cold pale flesh clashed against the meat and blood of what had once been a homely and bright visage. I passed her on with little ceremony. The dead were all I knew now. Some I carried with me. Some walked by my side. Others...well, others were intent only to be remembered, no matter by whom, bodies never recovered from the site of the Last Battle of Hogwarts. Susan’s corpse had been dragged into the Black Lake by scavenging mermaids and even the opportunistic Giant Squid, intent on making a meal of the very children it had escorted across the depths as first years.

The Wizarding World had been caught up in it’s own wars and terrors for so long that it hadn’t noticed the MUggle World drastically moving on without it. Gone were the muggles of my childhood who lived for neighborhood gossip and the latest news or video game. The world had gotten a little more bloodthirsty in my years away at Hogwarts, it seemed. Now modern versions of gladiator arena battles were what drove the masses. Men and women who beat each other bloody in the ring for the entertainment of the masses. Everything was controlled by this syndication now. From kids lunchboxes and games to condoms and drafts, merchandising had taken the faces of these so called “wrestlers” and made it’s dirty fortune. As for me, the telly in my small flat had never even been turned on and sat as a testament to the recurring lie my life had become. The parody of life that I had made for myself.

Eat, sleep, breathe, write. Eat, sleep, breathe, refuse to do a book signing from my longsuffering publishing agent. Again. Eat, sleep, breathe, buy a new goldfish because I killed the eighth one again. Not on purpose, of course. Things never did seem to stay alive around me for long. Story of my life. Or story of their death? I suppose they were one and the same, weren’t they? Semantics.

Lightning flashed, thunder crashing from above, and as I came to the mouth of the Kingsway Court alley, I saw him. From out of my peripherals I saw a man sprawled half on a rubbish bin and half on the ground, hair black as the night plastered to his face by the downpour and eyes closed somnolently. If I had been anyone else, I would have thought he was dead. But no. Death was all I knew in this life, if one could call it _life_ , anymore. I could smell death on a human. The closer to their imminent demise they were, the stronger the scent would linger in their breath, on their skin.

This man...This man was something else.

Neither dead nor dying, he poured the feel of death magic so strongly, it nearly bowed the spine. Power radiated from him despite the aura feeling weak and sludgy at the moment. It trickled around my legs almost wistfully, wisps beckoning me closer in the air as if it were a sentient thing. The power tickled along my skin like electricity, cool yet tinged with warning.

_Make the wrong move_ , it said, _and you_ **_will_ ** _regret it._

It reminded me of the feral cat that I occasionally would leave food out for. Every once in a while, it would even get a dear, recently departed goldfish. The thing was entirely wild and lashed out at any movement too quick or any millimeter too close. This power tasted of the same untameable wildness and barely restrained violence that cat did. Coming slowly closer brought more of the seemingly unconscious man into view.

I had stopped hearing the rain or noticing the smell of overripe, wet refuse. No. This strange man took up all of my attention now.

Rain mixed with blood that trickled down his over-pale face in rivulets, smearing across his neck almost as if someone had tried to beat in his head and then strangled him with their bloodied hands. Black hair hid the bulk of his features save for the neatly trimmed facial hair that showed through as dark as the rest. His clothes were sable as well, a long duster now sopping wet and an old fashioned sort of cowboy hat in a similar state that lay loosely on his lap.

The second thing I noticed was his size. Dear Merlin, the man had arms as thick as my thighs and a chest like a tank. Some sort of gym junkie? Well, I would give the man one thing. Even lying in filth on the wet ground in some back alley, he was a paradigm of masculinity. I had been wired more like my mother, to my deepest resignation: thin, lithe and wispy. The older ladies in my building kept trying to feed me mince pies and hams to “put some weight on those bones, dear, you’re looking as thin as a twig these days!”

How embarrassing. Still, they were good natured and appreciated me stopping by to pick them up their scripts and the latest gossip rag on my way back from my outings. I could only imagine the gossip Mrs. Bedelia and Genevieve would get on if the two elderly sisters saw me heaving a hulking, wet man up to my flat.

Oh, Merlin, there it was.

Sitting in the back of my brain and beginning to prod me viciously.

My trademarked ‘Saving People Thing’. Licensed and registered. Even now, Hermione’s words still stung at me. I use to hate admitting she was right. Now, now, it just annoyed me and made me feel...tired.

I couldn’t just leave an injured, unconscious man out in the pouring rain, could I? He was _bleeding_.

But that power...The same power that reached out, serpentine and crooning towards my own. _Hungrily_.

What if he was a wizard? Worse yet, what if he _recognized_ me? But could I live with myself if I did nothing?

Setting my Tesco bag on the grimy pavement, I knelt down to the stranger’s level, careful not to touch him. Goddess only knew if he had any curses or protective enchantments on his person.

His aura flexed for the briefest of moments like a tendon, nearly sending me sprawling backwards on my arse in surprise. The muscled figured didn’t move the slightest but his magic...His magic certainly did. That electric feeling began to undulate slowly in the air, reaching out in the small distance between us. That small distance became the most fascinating thing in all of the worlds because the power that even now reached out to me, drew out my own in turn. It was something that I hadn’t felt in years, something that had gone from being normal and every day to as rare as an eclipse.

My slumbering magic _woke_ , and rose up.

It was the swelling of a tide within me that I had almost forgotten existed. A muscle memory that responded at an unconscious need. It was a taste on the back of the tongue and a tugging deep within all at once. How long had I been without the feel of my own magic? How many weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds? The feel of it tore a shuddering gasp from my throat. When a near sobbing sound from my lips broke the still of the street night, the man’s eyes flew open with an almost audible sound. The smell of ozone filled the air as my own acidic green eyes met with a pair of fathomless grey, pupils blown wide and as deep as the dark depths of the pit.

This was no wizard.

At least no wizard as I had ever known.

Those eyes...Those eyes were like none that I had ever seen. They were the gaze of demise, the empty orbs of the spirits of the lonely places. It was the same vision that stared out at me from car windows at the sights of grisly accidents, from out of the puddles of still running fire hoses outside of flaming homes. They were the eyes of death.

A single large hand shot out of the blackness before I had a chance to take so much as a breath.

Fast. He was so _damned fast_.

Could he be...a Shtrige?

The furious voice that growled out at me from between clenched teeth held all of the lethality of a venomous bite, wrapped up in a sound that was like boulders grinding against one another. It was a voice that rose straight up from the earth, born of damp soil and clay.

“ _Who are you?_ **_What_ ** _are you? You will answer me!”_

Goddess, he had a voice that made the very air vibrate. The strong, calloused hand at my neck gave a threatening squeeze, reminding me of the demand that had been leveled at me.

Choking slightly at the pressure around my windpipe, I somehow managed to cough out something resembling the King’s English.

“I’m a local! I saw you back here while I was going home and just wanted to see if you were alright!”

His cold expression was one of disbelief. I couldn’t exactly blame him I suppose. Someone had clearly worked him over. Blood was still oozing from a large wound on his scalp somewhere and, now that I was seeing him more clearly as he shifted, there were countless other abrasions, cuts, and injuries all over him.

“Bloody hell…” I breathed, unable to even hide the wincing on my face at the sight.

It was nothing compared to the wounds I had seen in the past but for one person to be conscious, in what was surely indescribable pain, was remarkable.

Eyes as stormy as the night sky above flashed with unrepressed anger. Danger danced within his magic as surely as the rain was wet. There was the slightest hint of increased pressure against my neck as my captor pressed his advantage just that much more. I fought not to choke, stilling as much as possible in his grasp. Something told me that I did _not_ want this man to see me as a threat. Just because I couldn’t be killed didn’t mean that I couldn’t be hurt.

‘ _You won’t die...You won’t die...You won’t die…’_ The voices of the forgotten dead whispered, their quiet voices the sound of wind through skeletal branches.

“ _Silence.”_ The stranger hissed. Silence? But I hadn’t said anyth-

Without warning the voices halted altogether. For the first time in many years, the sensation of shock washed through my system like a virus.

He hadn’t been talking to me.

He’d been talking to the _dead_.

“You can hear them? You-...You can _speak_ to them?” I’d thought I was the only one. The only one hounded by the violently dead, the peaceless deceased. Goddess above, it wasn’t just me. It wasn’t just me.

“Who do you think you’re talking to, boy? Now I won’t ask again. Tell me _who_ and _what_ you are and maybe I won’t crush your skinny throat.” He growled with anger coating his words as surely as blood covered his body. Speaking of…

A trail of red life was sliding down my clavicle, leaking from a deep cut on the pad of his hand. As I felt the hot fluid slid down my skin, it’s host’s eyes took on an almost fevered and disoriented look. His breaths began to come in short, labored bursts. The hand holding me captive spasmed and released me but not before the man attached to it, leaned sideways and began to heave up spittle and stomach acid.

It was...a pitiful sight. How could I not have sympathy for someone in such desperate need of help? My patented ‘Saving People Thing’ be damned. A long-suffering sigh joined the rain now beginning to come down in sheets.

Another cough had to be forced out to reopen my abused airway before words could make it out.

“Listen, I really am just a local. People around here know me as Nemo but my name...My name is Harry. As for what I am, well, that takes a bit of a longer explanation and I’m wet enough without wanting to do it in the rain. Besides, it seems you’ve been worked over pretty well. I think you might have a concussion so I can at least take you inside. I can’t very well leave an injured man in some alley where a stray cat might very well finish you off.” There was a snort but other than that he made no reply. He made no refusal either. Taking it as as good a sign as I was likely going to get, I shrugged.

Leaning down, it took every bit of my not considerable strength to get the man’s arm around my shoulder and get him to his feet. Merlin’s balls! What did he weight, three-hundred pounds?! He was heavy as dragon shite! Fortunately for me, he was aware enough to give me a bit of help. If the blighter had been dead weight, we never would have made it off of the ground. Blessedly, the alley also happened to be formed in part by the building that housed my flat.

It was an older tenancy, a large house that at one time over it’s many decades had been remodeled and made into three separate small flats. Each had its own miniscule kitchenette, bathroom and single bedroom. Laundry services were shared between tenants in the basement. Though it was a bit dated and the carpeting thinning in places, it was cozy and held a homey atmosphere that had reminded me at once of the Burrow. It was no Hogwarts. Hell, it was no Private Drive, but the elderly ladies who lived there were sweet and mild mannered and the aging owner was more than willing to take money off of rent for any help with repairs or home improvement that I could lend an assist with.

To my immense relief, neither of the nosy but well-meaning ladies were awake this time of the evening. That or they were in Mrs. Bedelia’s flat watching “The Wheel” as they called their favorite American show on the telly. Either way, we made it up to my home unaccosted and with minimal bumps and bruises.

I eased the gent down onto my gray sofa as lightly as could be managed, careful of his dubious condition. I’d just managed to relieve myself of my burden when what could easily be mistaken as two small ponies galloped into the room, ready to nearly bowl me over. I thanked the heavens again for the two elderly women’s casual deafness downstairs.

Instead of paying any mind to the bleeding and strange man lying nearly sprawled on my sofa, the Vizsla and Golden Retriever pair, “Fruit Loop” and “Land-Seal” respectively, rushed over to me as if they hadn’t seen me in a year.

Did they want love? Did they want pats on the head or even to question what took me so long?

Nope.

The pair immediately shoved their heads into my discarded Tesco bag and, like furry heat-seeking missiles, began to sniff out the pack of their beloved snausages.

“Oi! Mind your manners! We have company!” Bag contents now scattered on the floor, the two looked up at my objection. Fruity put on her best puppy-dog eyes. Land-Seal simply panted happily, without shame, the plastic bag now covering his entire face save his joyful blonde nose.

‘What little gits,’ I thought fondly, grinning a the pair that had shared my life these last two years. Turning to my bleeding guest I grimaced, suddenly feeling not a little bit awkward at the situation.

“Erm...These two shites are Fruit Loop and Land-Seal. They don’t bite or anything so no need to worry about them. They’ll likely just nose you to death before anything. Dogs, this is Mr…” The awkwardness overwhelmed me and I realized, flushing a bit, that I had never even gotten the man’s name. I didn’t even know who the person was that I had brought into my home.

The inhabitant of my suddenly strangely small looking couch gave me a blank and rather frank look that made me feel like an idiot. Who brought random bleeding strangers into their flats anyways? And then, of all things, introduced them to their derangedly named dogs. People who didn’t fear death, I suppose. What did I have to fear from something that affected me as much as Mars did?

‘ _Mars is bright tonight_ …’ Came the old adage.

On second thought, bugger Mars.

 

A/N: Oh Goddess. Don't tell me how bad it is. I already can't believe i wrote a freaking wrestling/Harry Potter crossover. Bad author. My inspiration is...a strange and terrible privilege.


	2. The Lives We Sacrificed In Order To Live

A/N: Yeah, I still have no excuse for this story, though I’m glad to see some of you liked it. :) Chapter two: In which Harry is a twat, Undertaker is all broody, and the dogs just want some love.

 

Disclaimer:  I do not own anything. Rights are reserved by J.K. Rowling, the World Wrestling Federation and all subsidiaries and involved parties. Don't sue me.

 

**My Tell-Tale Bones**

**_Chapter Two...The Lives We Sacrificed To Live_ **

 

“Undertaker.” He replied simply, his tone holding no mocking or nonsense.

 

“Undertaker?” What kind of name was that? Maybe I’d misheard? I didn’t think so but… “Like...the job description? Muddling around with people’s bodies and all that literal rot?” 

 

‘ _ Harry Potter, could you sound more like a complete twat _ ?’ I groaned inwardly, sighing at my own lack of social grace. Could I get away with blaming an improper upbringing? Probably not. 

 

Undertaker didn’t seem all that impressed with my description of his livelihood. 

 

“‘ _ Muddling around with people’s bodies _ …’ You could say that.” Was all he intoned, almost quietly amused at the very comparison. 

 

Realizing that there was a red smear on the door jam, left from our not too graceful entrance, I immediately jumped into gear, remembering the man’s injuries. 

 

The whole  _ reason _ he was in my flat to begin with. I wasn’t usually so scatterbrained. Something about the man made me feel as if my brain were coming out of a fog, trying to shake off cobwebs after years of silent stagnation. Until I found my bearings, it was leaving me disoriented and dazed. 

 

Was it because he was the first magical person I’d interacted with in all these years? Merlin, I hadn’t even been able to do magic since I had left the Wizarding World behind. When I left, the last stop I’d made had been to Gringotts for money. There, safe within the confines of my vault with all of the Potter gold that could’ve never bought me happiness, my dear holly wand had also been left behind. I hadn’t wanted anything that could possibly be used to trace me. It had been hard but not having magic at all, not being magical at all, had been my only chance. Or at least that’s what I’d thought. 

 

When I’d been stabbed in the back of the head in a vicious mugging, not only had I not died, but the Elder Wand had leapt to my defense to exact a terrible and brutal judgement on the horrified would-be killer. 

 

I didn’t even know when it had appeared in my pocket but it had never left. The rather persnickety stick of elder was hidden even now as part of a decorative votive arrangement and my invisibility cloak was a rather gaudy curtain in the bedroom that had the tendency to send sparkles shimmering through my room when the sun’s light hit it first thing in the morning. I swear it was like the ruddy thing was just spiting me in vengeance for it’s undignified resting place.  

 

Grumbling, I pushed the thrice damned Hallows to the back of my mind and carried the Home-Healers Kit and towels from the lav back to the strange undertaker character on my sofa. 

 

Looking around my small, humble flat as I made my way back, I knew what Undertaker would see. Minimal furnishings and a tidy yet informal sitting room. I didn’t have much by way of possessions but much of what was there was a collection of mismatched oddities both muggle and magical alike. A bookshelf overflowing with a few centuries of rare Potter Family collected texts stood tall and almost oppressive in one corner. Some of the priceless manuscripts had been placed in makeshift shelves, wooden market crates turned on their sides and given new life and purpose. A jar of five perfectly preserved white feathers along with their owners ashes lay on a tiny shrine on the middle shelf of the bookcase. They were the only things left of the beautiful soul that had once been my dearest, closest and sometimes only friend. Five feathers, one for every year that we had been companions.

 

My fingers felt sticky with remembered blood, murder years old still scarred onto the insides of my very nerves. 

 

With an effort, I tore my eyes away from the shrine and back to my bleeding guest. 

 

Undertaker’s eyes were fixated on the small pixie-dragon skeleton that was hanging above my desk against the far wall, glassy and somewhat confused as if he couldn’t quite wrap his head around what he was seeing. The shrouded gaze flicked to the amalgamation of vials in the kit I spread out on the couch, each a different hue and consistency. Something in him seemed to click into place and the recognition only spread a frown across his pale demeanor.

 

“You’re a wizard…” It was a statement of fact rather than a question. 

 

Was I though? It didn’t seem right to call myself that anymore. With the Hallows ringing like soft chimes at the edges of my awareness, their power breathing new life into every cells even as it died, the term didn’t ring with the truth that it once had. 

 

“Mmmm...I haven’t been for some years now. I left that world behind and I haven’t looked back.” I explained softly, wetting one of the small towels lightly.  

 

The smell of simple antiseptic filled the air. After all, not everything had to be magic potions and spellwork. A regular disinfecting never hurt, especially before any potions were distributed. Seeing and being treated by war zone medics had taught me that much. 

 

Undertaker’s massive arms tensed as if he were expecting an attack but when none came, the muscles visibly relaxed, if only slightly. Merlin, his biceps were bigger around than my thighs. 

 

Gently, as if he had no more strength to him than a bubble, as if he couldn’t squeeze the life out of me with his little finger, I began to clean him free of blood. Goddess, there was so much of it. No thanks to the head wound, no doubt. If the battlefield had taught me anything it was that. 

 

That old familiar static began to creep into the foreground of my brain from it’s confinement that I had forced it into. I wanted to be a normal, everyday British muggle citizen. Normal everyday citizens did not know how to cast curses. Normal, everyday blokes did not have walls of static in their heads to hide all of the blood and murder behind. 

 

Normal. Right. 

 

Clearing my throat, and my head, I opted instead to try and fill the silence between me and a man who seemed perfectly comfortable with it if not my proximity. 

 

“So you’re a Shtrige, hm? I haven’t met many death mages in my days.” I offered with an awkward, yet hopefully comforting smile. 

 

His grave aura was a sentient thing, reaching out to rub against my own like some great feline. Testing mine for similarities and inconsistencies. For truths and lies. Strengths and  _ weaknesses _ . 

 

“In your days? And how many days would that be Mr. Harry No-Last-Name?” He rumbled, grimacing with distaste as I rewetted the cloth with disinfectant.

 

I don’t know why but the question struck me as alarmingly funny. 

 

For so long, my last name had marked me, singled me out to an entire nation of hero-worshipping sheep as their savior and scion. Later, it would mark me as a figurehead and soldier. A child that they had forced to become a man and, inevitably, a murderer. Eventually even my own death had been snatched out of my hands. All because of a last name. 

 

“I do have a surname,  _ Mr. Undertaker _ ,” I chuckled good-naturedly, snorting out loud at his disdain, “It’s Potter. Harry Potter and I’m twenty-one years young, thanks.”

 

“Potter, then. I’m what you might call a death mage, yes, but you could say I’m...a special case. You’re no ordinary wizard yourself either though, are you?” The question was asked as if he already knew the answer. He didn’t need confirmation of it. What Undertaker was looking for was  _ elaboration _ . 

 

I wasn’t giving it to him.

 

“Yes, you could say that.” 

 

I didn’t need anyone, especially some hulk of a stranger off of the street, meddling in my affairs. All that I needed was some greedy brute getting it in their head to try and claim the Hallows for themselves. They wouldn't be able to, after all I couldn’t die, but it would be a terrible nuisance.

 

Either Undertaker wasn’t willing to press the matter with the person willing to freely aid him or he was a man who respected the secrets of others. His eyes narrowed slightly but he remained silent on my obvious evasion. 

 

“I’ll need you to, erm...take your coat and top off so I can check for injuries beneath them. After that, I can give you potions and you can shower if you feel up to it.” I directed, most certainly not flushing lightly at the idea of what lay beneath those layers. 

 

Merlin’s beard, if his arms looked like that, what did his  _ chest _ look like? No. Bad Harry! Bad brain! My sanity dubiously survived Voldemort only to be done in by some bloke with a herculean set of pecs. What had the world come to? 

 

So maybe I hadn’t  _ just _ been watching Cedric exercise for tips and tricks. Maybe I hadn’t  _ just _ wanted to be close to the twins for friendship reasons. And that bloke from the animal shelter two years ago? I most  _ certainly  _ did not spend the night with him two weeks later. Nope. 

 

“No potions.” He grunted, struggling to shrug off the sopping leather duster that clung to him in all of the right places. Right for viewing pleasure maybe but certainly not for his injuries. Undertaker had taken a beating and his body was showing the signs of it. 

 

“No potions? But...you’ll be in pain. And you probably have Goddess knows how many broken bones.” I interjected in surprise, trying not to point out the alarming cuts on his face from what could only have been blunt force. He was going to look a right mess tomorrow without potions to help him heal. 

 

“A rib. Concussion. Broken finger. Maybe the nose. Nothing that won't heal on its own with time and  _ without _ magical meddling. I'd rather heal my own way.” He groused, grinding his teeth and I reached out to help him slide the left sleeve down off of his shoulder. 

 

The gasp that tore its way from my throat would not be smothered. Already, his back was a mass of welts and bruising skin. Familiar marks, ‘boot prints’, my mind supplied unhelpfully, littered the tight muscles and broken flesh. 

 

“Goddess of all…” The whisper cut through the air of my flat like a scythe. 

 

No potions? 

 

For all of...All of  _ this _ ? 

 

“But...you’re sure?” Another definitive affirmative, “Well, alright. But I’m going to at least bind you up. You may look like a mummy after. Binding has never quite been my specialty.”

 

Undertaker accepted this admittance with silent confirmation. I began the arduous task.

 

It was no small feat with a man who towered over me by at least a foot and a half and outweighed me by no less than a hundred and fifty pounds. Somehow, I ended up kneeling between the now shirtless man’s legs, entirely unaware of my position until I finished tying the rather shoddy knot down beneath his ribs. 

 

A huff of happy contentment, observing my handiwork proudly only distracted me for a moment. It was better than my past medical attempts, if not the most attractive piece of work. I may have even gotten away with my dignity intact if I hadn’t realized how disastrously close to the man I was. His dark eyes stared down at me from mere inches away and his body seemed to draw out the heat from the very air, only serving to draw my own heat closer to the surface. 

 

I shot to my feet, aura sparking out hotly and burning with my smothered embarrassment. Speech took another coughing effort. Maybe this bloke was cursed or something. Cursed with good looks and an amazing build, maybe...Bloody hell, I would not, and I mean  _ NOT _ turn into some ruddy rom-com, thanks very much! Especially not for some stranger dumped in a dingy back alley. 

 

Undertaker’s brows were furrowed lightly but he seemed otherwise unaware of my predicament, thank Merlin.

 

“How about that shower? I’ll make us some supper while you’re in, yeah?” 

 


	3. The Lies We Told So We Could Sleep

A/N: Alright! So I hate how cringey Harry got last chapter. I am going to elaborate that this is NOT going to be some happy go lucky everyone-gets-a-happy-ending-and-dances-off-into-the-sunset kind of story. There are going to be tears and blood, so for those of you who are afraid I'm trying to put Undertaker into some sort of rom-com situation: No. Fear not, dear readers, that is not what this is going to be. HOWEVER, this chapter is going to be relationship building so take the light chapter for what it is because the dark and tragic stuff is going to be beginning just around the corner.

 

Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.   

 

**Chapter Three: The Lies We Told So We Could Sleep**

  
  


I couldn’t in good conscience allow a man that badly injured to go back out to die in the street. Especially when I knew he would refuse to go to hospital. So the Undertaker took up residence in my flat for a time.

 

One day turned into a week. Slowly, we began to forge a sort of connection. He never lost his chilly, dark demeanor. No, I came to realize that that was just his personality. But inch by brutal inch, his eyes began to lose the lethal distrust each time they alighted on me.

 

“So why ‘Undertaker’?” I queried one day over breakfast. 

 

He was a strange sight, sitting at my tiny kitchen table, eating a plate of marmite on toast. Any moment now, I expected the man to take a bit out of the actual plate. What the devil did they feed him across the pond to make him the size of a bloody elephant? Watching him devour a third helping of toast and a bowl of Shreddies, I was betting they fed him a small farm. Definitely a farm. 

 

Undertaker paused in his perusal of the paper’s entertainment section, seeming to think about my odd question. I suppose it must be strange to ask why you carried the name you did. Was ‘Undertaker’ even his real name? Unsurprisingly, I had yet to muster the courage to ask. 

 

“We are given names fitting to our purpose in these realms. I was named for my  _ unique _ purpose as all things are.” Was what he said finally. 

 

He was named The Undertaker because that was his purpose? So...his purpose was to care for the dead? To bury or cremate bodies? Come to think of it, I realized how little I actually knew about what an undertaker did. 

 

_ The smell of wet dirt and burning bodies.  _

 

_ Rain on my face. Smoke in the air as we tried to dispose of the countless dead quickly. Before they could rise and be used as weapons against us... _

 

No. I shoved the memories back, back into the box they belonged in. 

 

Goddess, I needed serious professional help. Who could I go to though? I couldn’t exactly go to any old muggle therapist and the Wizarding World’s mind healers, well...That just wasn’t an option anymore. 

 

Realizing that my scattered mind had gone off topic, my brain had to reprocess Undertaker’s response. Suddenly realizing what he had said, I snorted into my cereal and milk, having to grab for my napkin to avoid a rather embarrassing spill. 

 

The man across the table- Merlin, the man was the  _ size _ of the table- tightened his massive hands into deadly fists, cerulean eyes darkening with defensive anger. He thought I was mocking him. I waved off his anger, mopping up the milk on my mouth.

 

“I’m not taking the mickey, Undertaker. I was just having a go at myself really. After all, what kind of purpose does a stupid name like ‘Harry’ give me?” The words were chuckled out but inside, the cage in my mind rattled ominously, threatening to leak blood and whispers all over me. 

 

Undertaker’s gaze had eased but he watched me still, an almost knowing glint in his eyes.

 

“I don’t know. What kind of purpose does a wizard named Harry Potter have?” He asked at last, lightly closing the day’s paper as if his words had been as meaningless as a dust mote to a mountain. 

 

All humor bled out of my spirit like water down a drain. My fingers spasmed around my spoon. In the metal reflecting back at me, I caught a distorted glimpse of the scar on my forehead. One of many that now littered my skin, unseen beneath long sleeves and trousers.

 

“What happens…” The words were breathed out, barely having any life to them. Lifeless as the eyes that followed my steps outside of my warded home, my only safe haven in the world. “-when we no longer have a purpose? When our purpose is finished?”

 

What was I supposed to do now? Where was I meant to go from here? Was I just another forgotten soldier, an obsolete relic from a war since past? What did one do when you lived, breathed, and were raised for war, only for that war to end? The rest of the world moved on without me and I had been left behind. Trapped in a static state, isolated and alone.

 

Undertaker leaned forward ever so slightly, just enough to draw my eyes into the unfathomable depths of his own. There was a deep understanding etched in the look he gave me. One that left a sort of fondness behind that I couldn’t shake. A magnetism.

 

“I think that is when our purpose is really just beginning.” 

 

Goddess. 

 

A week turned into a month. The flowers in the window box below began to bloom.  

 

Undertaker was doing a sort of impromptu workout with whatever he could find on hand, everything from my sofa to the shower curtain rod with two buckets hanging on either side. The buckets had been filled with anything and everything my apartment boasted with any sort of weight to it, including the man’s enormous boots. Watching him do some sort of squatting exercise from my connected kitchenette had proven to be...distracting. 

 

Sweat glistened on his back and up the sides of his neck. Hair plastered to the side of his face. He looked like some sort of death demon sex god come to life.

 

Even though my living room had started smelling perpetually like a gym, I couldn’t help but find that the view more than made up for it. My proper pancakes however? They were a little worse for wear because of that same view. 

 

The man that had become the center of my attention wiped the beading moisture from his face and threw the plain blue towel onto my small couch that had become his bed these past weeks. His blue eyes caught my gaze and a bolt of what I could only understand as amusement passed through the cerulean orbs. 

 

“The food is burning.” The tone in his voice could have meant so many things. English words just no longer made it through the daze I seemed to fall into every time I caught myself staring at him. 

 

“What?” I breathed, unable to register anything except the slowly approaching pillar of rippling muscle. 

 

Undertaker stepped close, close enough that we were nigh on chest to chest. A large hand surrounded mine, warm and strong, lifting my hand and the spatula held loosely, forgotten, within. 

 

“The food, Harry. It’s...burning.” 

 

Holy hell, could he make anything sound like it vibrated my very bones? My stuttering brain finally caught on and my attention turned back to the flat baking griddle just in time to see the man reach past me and flip the now dark and unappealing pancake onto its back. 

 

Bugger all. Another perfectly proper pancake ruined. That made three now…

 

Sighing, I passed him a plate of unburned lunch and the lemon marmalade. I would give him one thing. Undertaker was taking to proper English food like a phoenix to the air. As if it had never happened, my companion eased away with only a breath of air. The only indication that it hadn’t all been a dream was the feeling of his cool power peeling reticently from my skin like the adhesive of a child’s plaster. 

 

Undertaker sat at my tiny flat’s kitchen nook table looking awkward and brilliantly out of place. Why had he not tried to contact anyone for help or aid in the time he had been here? There was a cellular that I’d seen in his overlarge duster but after a month it hadn’t a charge. But why not in the beginning? When he had initially been hurt? Did he have no one? No one to call on when he needed them? 

 

It took me a few days to muster up that old Gryffindor courage to ask.

 

Gryffindor. The very word sat heavily on my heart. I was so far removed from that life and that time that I could have been a different creature entirely. I didn’t know if I was even still human, let alone the old Harry Potter that once had walked Hogwarts halls in childish ignorance.                                                                                             

 

“So…Do you have anyone waiting on you to come back?” He looked up at me curiously, his eyes blanking of any other decipherable emotion. Maybe he thought that I was beginning to think of him as a burden. Despite his hippogriffs appetite, he was certainly no hardship. In fact, he made me feel...human again.

 

“Not that I’m not glad to have you here. Goddess knows, you’re a better conversationalist than the dogs. But don’t you have someone worrying about you? No family or...Or anything?” 

 

He chewed a bite of marmalade covered pancake, almost thoughtfully. While I awaited his answer, the coffee pot called me over with the smell of sweet dark brazilian brew. 

 

“I have a brother. Kane.” A brother, eh? What did someone related to a man like the Undertaker look like? Smiling, blonde and 5’3? The very image was enough to make me have to hide a smile behind my cup. “He was my enemy though when last we saw each other. He was severely burned in a childhood fire that I started and he’s only recently begun to get past it.” A childhood fire? I could only picture young boys playing with camp fires or fire crackers. Somehow, the unsettling doubt that prodded me in my stomach doubted that it was truly anything so innocent though.

 

“Wow.” I breathed out lightly over my black coffee, coming to sit back at the table across from Undertaker, “I blew up my aunt like a balloon once. Oh, and my cousin ended up with a literal pigs tail attached to his arse. That one wasn't me specifically but I still feel kind of responsible for it.”

 

The look of sudden surprise on his face was enough to shock me into a full peal of warm laughter, my earlier uncertainty forgotten.

 

“So no on the family waiting around. No friends?” He gave me a frown as if suddenly questioning my intelligence, “Okay, no. Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

 

He gave a derisive grunt, dismissing the query entirely in favor of the flat, lemon-covered heaven on his plate.

 

“The people in the organization are normally too terrified to be in my presence longer than strictly required, let alone comfortable enough to find me sexually attractive.” 

 

“That’s the dog’s, mate. People were like that with me too, back...well, back where I came from.” Understatement of the century, yeah? If they weren’t swooning with hero worship, they were forcing me to win their battles or claiming me the next dark lord. 

 

“As for those nutters at your bonkers organization, well...I do. Find you attractive. I mean…anyone with half a brain and a pair of eyes would have to.” Gryffindor courage? More like Gryffindor stupidity. What was I thinking saying something so rat-arsed stupid?

 

“I noticed. It’s a little hard not to when you keep getting  _ distracted _ , Harry.” My companion chuffed, already eyeing the coffee by the cupboard himself. 

 

Oh Merlin, he was right. How humiliating. Undertaker was sure to leave now and I’d be left to the silence again. Silence and the sound of blood in my ears. Blood, red and sticky and stinking of copper-

 

“But...If you promise to stop burning the food, I can be alright with that.” 

 

My breath stuttered in my throat to the unfortunate detriment of my lungs. I choked on the scalding coffee, much to the silent amusement of my newly found compatriot.

 

One month became three and then four.

 

It wasn’t until this fourth month that I saw the powers of the Undertaker for the very first time. 

 

Oh, there had been hints. Whispers. Always the whispers…

 

The dead seemed to press close to him, crave the magic that flowed around him. He was like a black hole that dragged on their spirits, a silent stalking thing that trailed through the night. 

 

There had been clues too. Things that I could never be sure of. Lights dimming and dying in the sitting room even though I knew him to be six feet away on the sofa. The way his eyes would sometimes gloss over, taking on a white and milky sheen and he would seem to be listening to something only he could hear. 

 

The second time I noticed this was when he began to obsessively watch that barbaric wrestling program on the telly. ‘Watching out for anyone who may call me out. Studying the enemy,’ He had said. ‘Preparing for my return.’ His eyes had gained that glassy, almost reflective quality then and a small frown would appear on his oh-so-kissable mouth as if he had gotten some unfortunate news.

 

But in the fourth month, a sweaty June evening, I saw these powers in truth. 

 

The windows were open all across the flat, begging for a breeze, and outside the crickets were chirping. We sat in the midst of an unseasonal heatwave and I had stripped down to a pair of shorts and an undershirt. Occasionally throwing a glare at a the bloodless visage of Adrian Pucey who stared out at me from the reflective window pane, I worked at scrubbing out my cauldron after a rather disastrous potion mishap. 

 

When had Pucey’s mauled, bloody mess of a throat stopped making my throat clench? When had I stopped being bothered by the sight of his grisly demise? He had been a victim of a werewolf’s rabid lust for blood when killing light siders had stopped satisfying his thirst for carnage. Mid-battle, Greyback’s pack had stopped caring who was friend or foe. Voldemort had learned that releasing flesh hungry werewolves into battle on the full moon was never a good idea. Pucey had been a Death Eater. Greyback hadn’t cared. The monster had eaten a quarter of his fellow Death Eater before a well aimed cutting curse had ended the alpha’s reign for good. 

 

The sight of the ripped open throat had once sickened me. When had it stopped?

 

I knew. It was really quite obvious, when you looked at it. 

 

I heard the Undertaker stand from what had come to be his preferred spot on the couch, the springs groaning in relief of their burden. 

 

He had changed things. Undertaker made me feel...secure. Safe. It was foolish, I knew. It wasn’t as if he were going to stay, after all. At some point, probably soon, he would go back to the States and I would return to my silent existence with only my dogs for companionship. The idea unsettled me more than I was comfortable with. 

 

I was scrubbing furiously at the ruddy cauldron, trying desperately to purge my mind of the treacherous feeling. Pucey stared on, unimpressed. The whispers of his spirit grated on my nerves with a renewed vexation. The heat was getting to me. 

 

Why did the whispers seem more heightened than usual? Was it the heat? 

 

Goddess, what I wouldn’t give for just a breeze…

 

Just then, I felt it. A stirring. 

Suddenly, the room went from feeling like an oven to a freezer. There was a strange sensation in the center of my being. A tugging like a gentle magnetism. It pulled on my magic and the power of the Hallows answered in kind. 

 

A wave of curling darkness reached out from the sitting room, teasing and wrapping around my own. 

 

From his place in the sitting room, I could feel him reaching out. Not to me necessarily but nonetheless, the effect was all encompassing. I was caught in that inescapable black hole, being drawn in more and more…

 

In more ways than one. 

 

Slowly, my feet began to move of their own accord. Step by step that power drew me closer to its master and when at last I came to the open doorway between the living room and kitchen, he was there. In the center of the room where he had slept and read books on my sofa, seeming so familiar a part of my life now, Undertaker stood in the center of a cold maelstrom of magic. 

 

He was...frightening. Marvelous. Terrifying and captivating all at once. 

 

Eyes had turned completely white, any color that had been leached away. Any hues that had once been in his hair were smothered out by shadow until it looked as if he were in black and white greyscale. His large hand was outstretched and facing downward as if he would command the dead to rise up from the floor right there. A swirling vortex of power curled and snaked around his large form. The lights dimmed and died until the only light came from the vortex itself, a sickly pale, purplish hue that illuminated little and cast what it did in an eerie glow. 

 

Rising from the floor at his command was a shadow. A slithering thing that took on form before my very eyes. Two small clawed hands like some sort of large bird of prey’s jutted out without warning from the shade, grabbing hold of the edge of the Undertaker’s boots in supplication.

 

I near jumped out of my bleeding skin. Slapping a hand over my mouth was the only way to keep myself from crying out in alarm.

 

Quickly, as if the darkness were melting down around the creature, a black almost feline body emerged. It was pure sable with an arching back like an enraged cat if a cat could be the size of a labrador. Multifaceted eyes glittered, gemstones watching out in the ochre as it bowed before its...creator? Master? Summoner? What was this thing anyways? 

 

“Go, Gelkinda. You know what I wish of you.” The man commanded, his bass of a voice rumbling with an earthquake pitch across the room, sending vibration through my body and black magic rolling with a near sensuality down my spine.

 

Gods, what would that voice be like moaning in delight? 

 

Merlin, did I really need to get out more. This could  _ not _ be healthy. 

 

The thing, Gelkinda?, released a grating, chittering screech and without warning, dove into the nearest shadow, disappearing into it like a doorway. Undertaker gave a tug on his power, inhaling it back into himself like a drag on a cigarette, dark blackness invading the lungs and settling there with an almost pleasurable burn. His eyes began to lose their eerie paleness and his pupils reemerged to focus in on me with a heavy intent. 

 

They were guarded, chastening,  _ daring _ . 

 

He was looking for rebuke, for disgust and suspicion. 

 

Instead, he only got-

 

“How do you feel about Chinese? I could go for a spot of supper.”

 

After all, I had seen far more frightening things in my life than one minor shade summoning.

 


End file.
